


Whispers

by Lady In A Tux (CollateralDamage666)



Series: Why Sherlock has Ruined my Life [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Insanity, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:25:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollateralDamage666/pseuds/Lady%20In%20A%20Tux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been dead for nearly half a year now and John has carried on like one would assume he would.  Tired, sad, lonely.  But one day he changes.  He says Sherlock's alive and impatient for a case.  Sherlock never left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whispers

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a prompt someone gave me on Tumblr:
> 
> John snaps mentally goes on living as if Sherlock were still alive. He's gone a little loony in that he can't accept Sherlock's death so he pretends it never happened. Then Sherlock comes back for real and it's basically an angsty reunion because John thinks that the real Sherlock is some impostor because the "real Sherlock never left".
> 
>  
> 
> Not beta-ed or britpicked.

Greg Lestrade could only watch as his friend change in front of his eyes for the half year after the Fall.  No longer was John Watson a casual, normal human being, outgoing and quick to sarcasm.  He became a fraction of the man he had been when he had lived with Sherlock and now that Sherlock was dead, he was like a shell.  He was the only one to have seen Sherlock fall, he had heard his voice last, getting his “note” through a phone call as he stood on a street below him.  It’s as though John has crumpled in on himself after watching that.

But then it was as if nothing had ever happened, as though he rebounded within a day.  He was suddenly all smiles and quick wit again, as though nothing had happened.  Of course, he immediately contacted Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft, though it was highly probably that he already knew about the change.  He had, but apparently didn’t know how to go about it.  Damn the Holmes family and their inability to know how to act around a living, breathing human being with feelings and emotions and act normally.  With a roll of his eyes, he suggested they go over and see John together and Mycroft practically latched onto the idea as though he had been the one to think it up instead.

Greg called ahead to let John know they were coming to have some tea, not taking no for an answer and John finally grumbled in reply.  He took it as a yes, that they could come.  They were there within the hour, pressing the doorbell.  Mycroft looked irritated in using the device, as he was probably used to just barging in, most likely with his own key, but he waited patiently like a normal human being for the time.  Finally, they heard the click of the lock and the door opened slowly, Mrs. Hudson opening the door looking worse for wear.  Her frizzled hair was even more messed up than usual and her eyes were red.

“Oh, Lestrade, Mycroft, dears,” she said, looking up at the two of them, “I’m so glad you came.  John could use a little company.  I don’t know what’s gotten into him, but he’s acting all strange.  This morning he said Sherlock was getting impatient with no contact from you with a case.  I don’t know what’s going on or what’s going through his head,” she stopped and sniffled pulling out a handkerchief to wipe away her tears.  Lestrade moved forward quickly, gathering her into a tight hug, rubbing circles in her back for comfort.  When she was done, she pushed away, patting him on the arm.

“I’ll leave you three alone now so you can find out what’s wrong with him and help him,” she sniffed as she hobbled back into her own flat starting out at them before shutting her door.  Greg looked up the stairs at John’s flat and was surprised to see the door open, much as it had always been when Sherlock had lived there.  After Sherlock’s death, John had decided to keep it closed, just another way to block off the world.  For him to leave it open like this was definitely not good.  He glanced over his shoulder at Mycroft to find a small frown on the man’s face.  He was probably thinking along the same lines.  Greg took the lead, walking up the stair in what he hoped looked like a calm matter, because he sure didn’t feel calm.

He walked into the flat, immediately seeing John settled comfortably in his armchair, newspaper held up in front of his face.  Upon hearing them enter he turned to look at them with a small smile.  He looked perfectly normal, as though Sherlock had never died at all and, coupled with what Mrs. Hudson had told them, he had an uneasy feeling sinking in the pit of his stomach.  The room looked exactly as it always did, with Sherlock’s things thrown around the room in a frenzy and some sort of cleanliness peaking through as though John had started to clean it up, but had given up just because of the sheer amount.

“Hey, Lestrade.  Mycroft,” the smile dipped a bit when he addressed Mycroft, but then he got to his feet, “I’ll go make us some tea.”

They watched him disappear into the kitchen before sparing each other a glance.  Definitely not good.  Greg moved quickly, walking over to the door of Sherlock’s room.  He opened the door and peered inside.  If the living room had looked bad, then Sherlock’s room looked absolutely horrid.  Books lay in stacks in the room, with the occasional stack that had collapses, causing a sort of domino effect around them.  The bed was covered in more miscellaneous books and papers and some sort of animal skull was perched on top of all of the mess on the bed like it was being held on high.  Over all, the room look unused, a thin layer of dust over all of the surfaces and the bed untouched for a while.  No one had been in this room since Sherlock- He never got to finish his thought as a hand reached out, pulling the door back closed in his face.

He looked down to see a very irritated looking John, “Please refrain from doing something stupid.  You know Sherlock doesn’t like it when people poke about in his stuff, especially his room.”

“And where is Sherlock at this moment,” Greg asked, hoping John would say something along the lines of ‘six feet under, you git’ to help cool his and Mycroft’s unease.  But he didn’t.

“I don’t know.  Out doing whatever it is he does, I suppose.  Maybe talking to his homeless network?  How should I know?  I‘m his friend, not his tracker.  He can do what he wants as long as he crawls back eventually for some food and sleep.”

Greg chewed on his bottom lip, wondering how to break this softly to John, but Mycroft beat him to the punch.  Unfortunately that man didn’t even try the soft approach at all.

“Sherlock is dead.”

John’s head whipped around so fast Greg heard his neck bones crack, “What?  How?  Oh god, he’s always doing stupid things, but-“ he looked down, his brow creased in confusion, “Why wasn’t I told before this and without a false pretense that we would just be having tea?”

“You were there when he died, John.  He jumped off the roof of St. Barts, remember?  It’s been about six months now.”

Something seemed to twist John’s face into a barely contained mask of rage,” Is this your idea of some sick joke?”  He hissed, taking a threatening step toward Mycroft who didn’t even flinch, “Because it sure as bloody hell isn’t funny.  I don’t appreciate whatever it is you’re trying to pull, Mycroft.”

“John, we’re not joking.  Sherlock is dead.  Why can’t you remember that?”

Now John’s anger turned on Greg, “You, too, Greg?”  Greg did flinch at the switch to his first name, a sick twist of intimacy in his anger, “Is this the only reason you two came over?  So you could play your sick game?  What, are you two shagging or something and in the middle of it, you just came up with this brilliant plan?”

Greg sputtered, “What?  No!  We’re not shagging!  I’m not gay, John.”  Mycroft seemed generally unfazed by it all, “And that’s beside the point, John.”

“Yeah, yeah.  And the point is that Sherlock’s dead, right?  Well, forgive me for not playing along with your sick fetish.  Now leave.”

Mycroft took a step forward as though to protest, but John spun on him again, screaming “Leave this goddamn place and don’t come back!  Stop meddling in our affairs!  You too, Greg. I don’t want to see your face around here ever again, you understand?  Get out, both of you.”  He was clutching a book in his hand now, ready to throw it at them if they didn’t start moving.  Mycroft moved first, walking toward the door with ease, but Greg stayed where he was, looking at John in sadness.

“John…” he said, broken.  There was nothing he could do for this man in front of him, not matter how much he wanted to.  He wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him or pull him into a hug or drag him to Sherlock’s grave.  But he knew he couldn’t.  All of those would just make this situation worse.  The book flew at his head and he managed to duck in time, letting it thump harmlessly into the wall behind him.  The skull on the mantle piece rattled and slipped off, but Greg caught it with quick hands, only to have John dive forward and free it from his hands, clutching it to his own chest.  Now that they were close, Greg could see the shine of tears not falling in John’s eyes, as if his eyes knew to mourn but the rest of his body did not.

“Get out.  Now,” his rage was replaced with cool wrath, which sent a chill down Greg’s spine.  He had never seen this man like this.  He moved quickly now, stepping over to the open door leading out of the flat.  Mycroft was already making his way down the stairs.  Greg spared one last glance behind him at John, who had his back turned to him, curled up over the skull as though it was Sherlock himself he was protecting with his body.  Greg opened his mouth to say something more, but thought better of it and, with a sigh, left.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door of her flat a crack when they passed, looking out at them hopefully.  Greg gave her a sad shake of his head and he heard her give a shuddering sob before the door clicked back closed.  The walked in silence out of the building, only looking at each other once they had stepped out onto the sidewalk.  Mycroft looked hopeless for once and Greg was sure he didn’t look much better off, probably much worse than the government official did.  Mycroft never seemed to be fazed by anything.  He glanced over at the man and was shocked to find him gripping onto the handle of his umbrella so tightly that his knuckles were white.  His face remained a mask, but the tightness of his grip showed his true emotions.  So much for never being fazed.

Mycroft let out a shuddering breath before reaching into his pocket and removing his phone.  Greg watched as he quickly typed out a message with one hand.  As he was doing so, his black car slid soundlessly to the kerb, seemingly having come from nowhere.  He moved toward the back car door as it opened for him, still typing on his phone.  It was only once he was done with his message that he put the device away again and moved to get into the car.  Greg moved forward and Mycroft stopped, turning to him as though he had completely forgotten the detective was still standing there.

“Who was that message for?”  Greg asked, fully expecting not to get a straight answer from it.

“Someone who can help us with John,” Mycroft replied, giving him practically nothing, but Greg knew that was all he was going to get and decided not to push his luck.  Rain drops began to fall from the dark clouds overhead, dotting the ground.  Mycroft looked up at the overcast sky before returning his gaze to Greg, “Would you like a ride, Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Are you sure?  I really must insist that-“

“No,” he said more firmly, “I’d like to walk.  I need some time alone to think.  Thanks, but no thanks.  I expect I’ll be seeing you around, Mycroft, and please promise to keep an eye on John?”

“Of course.  Nothing has changed that.”

Greg gave a nod and turned away, walking away from the car as the rain picked up.  He hardly noticed it, though, so lost in his own thoughts.  Mycroft watched the detective walk away before getting into the car that slid soundlessly back into traffic.

* * *

Greg didn’t hear from John again for over a year, only getting the occasional report from Mycroft, none of them looking any better than the last.  He was just glad John chose to stay indoors instead of gallivanting outside, pretending he was following after Sherlock on some case that had never been given to them.  Maybe he had enough common sense to know that there were no more cases for Sherlock.  So when he got an anonymous text on his phone, his heart sank.  The sender was mostly likely from Mycroft – no one else would need to be that secret – and gave him the report that John had finally snapped.  He was being taken to an institution at that moment.

Immediately he snatched up his coat and swept out of his office, barely managing to tell Donavan that he was taking the afternoon off before he stepped into the elevator.  He was almost about to regret his decision not going down the stairs when the machine shuddered to a stop and a pleasant ding rang out.  He rushed out of the doors before they had even slid open all the way and hurried out to his car.  The drive to Baker Street was unbearable quiet alone, he couldn’t even work up the need to turn on the radio to put his mind onto something else.  It just didn’t seem right.

He pulled to the kerb, and turned off the engine.  Within seconds, he had hopped up to the door, knocking onto the wood.  It took a while for him to hear someone fumbling at the doorknob on the other side, but eventually Mrs. Hudson cracked the door open.  It looked like she had aged ten years since he had last seen here, her hair looking more white to him and wrinkles pulled at her skin.  Her eyes were those of someone who was tired all the time, wondering when it would just end.  She looked nothing like the energetic woman he once knew, zipping around John and Sherlock’s flat, yelling at them to tell them she wasn’t their housekeeper while she put the kettle on anyway.

He didn’t need to say anything to her.  As soon as she saw him, her face squinched up, unshed tears in her eyes, and she whimpered, “Oh, Lestrade, dear.”

He pulled her close, feeling just how thin and frail she was.  She had most likely been looking after John more than she had herself.  She clutched at his suit, sniveling into the material while he rubbing circles soothingly into the small of her back.  Eventually her sniffles died down, but she didn’t pull away, and neither did he.  She needed this comfort more than anyone else.  She was the one who had to watch, alone, while John spiraled further into the insanity brought on by Sherlock’s death.  She was the only strong one out of all of them, an anchor.

Finally she pulled away, dabbing at her cheeks, “I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”

“No, of course not.  Don’t apologize Mrs. Hudson.  Never apologize.”

She invited him in for tea and he graciously accepted.  This woman needed all the company in the world at that moment.

* * *

The doctor had been telling him about John’s situation for the past few minutes, but Greg was past listening, staring through the window into John’s small room.  Usually visitors weren’t allowed in this area of the mental hospital, but with just a flash of his badge, they had swept him right though after a quick check for anything on him that could be used as a weapon.  Finally the doctor stopped, looking at Greg expectantly.  He nodded absentmindedly at the man and softly asked if he could visit John.  There was the clink of keys as the man complied to his wishes and unlocked the door.  The shifting of metal caught John’s attention and he looked up as the door opened.  In a flash, he was on his feet.

“Oh, thank god you’re here Lestrade,” he ran a hand through his already scruffy hair, “They won’t let me see Sherlock.  They just locked me up in here, made me take medicine and- where is Sherlock?  Why isn’t he with you?  Look, I’m sorry about the commotion we caused at our flat but is that really enough to qualify me with some time locked up in-”

“John,” Greg’s voice was soft, yet firm and John immediately quieted at the noise, looking at him expectantly, “You’re in a mental institution, John.  You’re hallucinating, you’re tricking yourself into believing Sherlock is still alive.”

“But he-“

“No, John.  It’s almost been two years since he died.”

“Shut up,” his anger was back, flaring up like a fire, his tongue as sharp as a dagger.  But Greg did as he asked, instead pulling the man into a hug.  John struggled for a bit, but eventually relaxed into Greg’s embrace.  He felt the front of his suit dampen as John shed silent tears, his shoulders not even shaking.  Finally, Greg squeezed tighter for a second before releasing the man.  John scrambled to wipe away his tears, turning away from the detective and making his way back to his bed.  He sat down on it, knees pulled up to his chin and stared at the back wall.  He was done talking to Greg now, so the detective left him in peace.

* * *

The hand that slammed down on his desk nearly made him spit out his coffee all over his work desk.  It wasn’t so much the hand as to the body the hand was attached to, or the face staring down at him, eyes bright and piercing, sadness deep and shuddering in the gaze.  They stared at each other for a minute, Gregs coffee quickly growing cold in its cup before he brought it down with a loud clack, standing up to stare down the man in front of him.  He had no luck with that, though, he was still infuriatingly shorter than him.  Than-

“Sherlock, what in the bloody hell are you doing here and not buried in the cemetery?”

“I never died, Lestrade.”

“Last I checked you took a swan dive off the top of St. Barts while your best friend watched.  So, yes, I would have to say that you died, smashed your head open on the sidewalk below.”

Sherlock sighed as though this was the most trivial thing and Greg could see the others in the building looking into his office, their eyes wide.  Sally looked a bit pale and lost for words for once, her hands skittering over her paperwork, but her eyes staying locked on the back of the man standing in front of Greg’s desk.

“That was all just an act-“

“An act?  A bloody act?  That’s all?  Well excuse me for losing my temper, then, since it was all just an act and we can go back to our lives now and- except, wait!  John’s now mentally ill thanks to you,” he spit out the last part, sarcasm dripping off his first words.  Sherlock visibly flinched, his eyes darting down to stare at his shoes.  At least the bloody bastard felt some responsibilities for what had happened.  Greg hoped that guilt was consuming his soul, or whatever it was he had, because he obviously didn’t have a soul for what he put John through.

“Yes, I didn’t- I thought- I was trying to keep him safe.  I didn’t-“

“Well I must say you did a spectacular job at that.”

Sherlock was wringing his hands now, his air of authority blown out the window, “I jumped to save him.  I never thought-“ he looked up, his eyes going right through Greg, “Can I see him?”

“It’s been three bloody years, Sherlock, and you just want to pop into the mental ward to say hello?”

“I want to tell him I’m alive.”

“Oh, that’s what he’s been thinking these past three years, so I don’t think that will be hard.”

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, pulling on the curls, “Please, Greg, just let me see him once.  I just need to.  I need to.”

He looked so distraught and on the edge of tears that Greg couldn’t help but let out a weary sigh, “Fine, but I need to call ahead.”

Sherlock nodded stiffly.

* * *

The ride to the hospital was quiet.  Too quiet.  Yet again, he couldn’t work up the need to turn on the radio to drown the silence.  He didn’t want synthetic noise, some voice coming through the speakers.

“Why?”  It was one question with so many possibilities, yet Sherlock seemed to know just what Greg wanted from the word.

“To save John.  Not just John, but Mrs. Hudson and you as well.  If I hadn’t jumped, you each would have been shot where you stood and, with Moriarty dead, there was no one to call it off.  So I jumped.  There was really no question of whether I should or not.  I couldn’t live with all of you dead, so I took the best route.  I had set up my death beforehand, I knew what Moriarty was going to play.  I just didn’t expect him to threaten the lives of those I cared about,” he was staring out the window, watching the houses roll by.  Greg stayed quiet, not wanting to ruin the moment by blurting out something along the lines of _You care about us, me?  Well isn’t that just bloody brilliant._

“After I died, I work on tearing down Moriarty’s web.  Mycroft kept me updated on John’s status.  When he texted me that John thought I was still alive, I almost got on an airplane and came back.  But I couldn’t.  Not yet.  It wasn’t safe.”

“So that’s who your brother was texting that day.  You.  I asked who he was messaging and he said it was someone who could help.”

“But I couldn’t.  I wanted to, but I just couldn’t.   Moriarty’s right-hand man was still out there and I couldn’t endanger you all again with him still breathing.  So I had to wait.  Every text I got from Mycroft was like a lifeline to me.  It was a horrible lifeline, but it was the only one I had,” he sighed, sadness leaking into his voice, “I just wish I could have finished sooner, then maybe none of this would have happened, I could have stayed with John.”

“You can stay with him now,” Greg murmured, pulling into the parking lot, “If he’ll have you.”

Their steps were loud on the waxed floor tiles and they were quickly led back to John.  He was in the common area and looked to be the most sane of the group of patients in the room, pleasantly staring out the window.  The nurse approached him, touched his shoulder, and he turned with a smile, nodding at whatever she said to him, then his eyes fell on Greg and Sherlock.  Greg could see the exact moment the madness set in again.  John looked away, back out the window.  Next to Greg, Sherlock flinched, reaching a hand out as though he could touch John from this distance.

The detective led him over, tugging on the sleeve of his suit.  They slid into the seats opposite John, Greg sitting across from him.  It was torture sitting there, listening to the other patients talk and holler at each other while John continued to stare out the window.  But his stance was rigid, his hands drawn into fists, turning his knuckles white.  His eyes slid over, taking them both in out of the corner of his eye before darting away to look out the window again.  He seemed to be holding his breath, as though waiting.

“Hello, John,” Greg started, leaning forward and placing his hands on the table.

“Hi, Greg,” he didn’t acknowledge Sherlock, though his eyes kept darting to him as his teeth worked on his bottom lip, as though he was trying to chew through it.

Sherlock was gripping his hands together, his eyes never leaving John as though if he glanced away, he would disappear.  Yet John still did not talk to him or acknowledge him.  Sherlock shuffled in his chair and swallowed heavily, trying to work up the courage to say something to the man.

“John…” it came out more like a whisper, yet that single word held more emotion than anything other word Greg had heard the man utter.

John spun to look at him, his eyes like fire and a frown etched into his face, “And who the bloody hell are you supposed to be?  Greg, if this is your pathetic attempt of-“

“Of what, John?  I was gone, but now I’m back.  It’s me, John.”

“Bollocks.  You never left.  And you’re not him, you’re not Sherlock.  Sherlock never left, so you can’t be Sherlock,” his voice was rising in pitch, gaining the attention of the nurses, one of who was making their way over to them.

Panicking now, Sherlock lurched forward, leaning over the table and John bent his back to get away from him as much as he could.

“Listen to me, John.  I jumped off St. Barts three years ago. You watched me fall, you thought I was dead.  But I wasn’t.  I was gone for three years, John.  The Sherlock you’ve been seeing doesn’t exist.  I do, I’m real.  I’m-“

“Shut up!”  Now they had everyone’s attention, heads swiveling in their direction to see what the commotion was, “Just shut up and stop speaking in his voice, stop wearing his face, stop trying to be him.  I know you’re not him.  Don’t say you left me, goddammit.  Sherlock would never leave me for those three long years you talk about.  You are not Sherlock.  Sherlock never left.”

“John-“

“No, I said shut up!”  His punch wasn’t completely unpredictable, but Sherlock didn’t try to get out of the way of it in any case.  He stumbled backward from the blow, John spitting out venom as nurses grabbed onto him, plunging a syringe into his arm.  The drugs took effect almost immediately, his body drooping in their arms, but his eyes were still glaring daggers up at Sherlock, who hadn’t even bothered to touch the tender bruise forming on his jawbone, so lost in John as he was.  The nurses told them quietly, but firmly that it was probably best they leave now.  Greg had to practically drag the tall, lanky detective out of the room, his body not yet willing to move from that spot.

* * *

“I called the hospital.  They said John’s been cleared for another visit, just so long as we don’t replicate what happened last time.  They've given us permission to talk in his room, away from the others,” Greg told Sherlock from the always open doorway to the man’s flat.  The rooms seemed so empty again with only one person inhabiting them.  It was as if the flat was only content when both John and Sherlock dwelled between its walls.

Sherlock perked up at the news, reaching for his coat and scarf automatically and throwing them on, wrapping the scarf around his lean neck with flourish.

“If we leave now, we’ll be thirty minutes early for the designated time she gave me.”

“Lestrade, if I stay in this flat for one more minute, you’ll find me in the room next door to John’s.”

Lestrade sighed and followed after the man, as Sherlock brushed past him, flitting down the stairs.

There were early, but Sherlock didn’t seem to care.  He didn’t even tap his feet or pace around the room as they waited for the nurse to let them go see John.  When a male nurse finally approached them and told them John was ready to see him now, Sherlock practically leapt from his seat, marching toward the door and waiting impatiently for the nurse to catch up.  He let them to the room, the same one John had been in the first time Greg had come to the hospital a year ago.  If felt like a lifetime.

The door opened and John hardly glanced at them, so preoccupied with the book he clutched in his hands.  _The Lord of the Rings: Two Towers._   Greg wondered if he had read the first book, or had just picked up the second one and decided to start from there.  He, himself, had tried to read the book, but it had been so dreadfully long and full of fighting from beginning to end that he had finally set it aside, cast away in his flat, probably never to be picked up again.  Sherlock took the only available chair in the room, dragging it over to the side of the bed to sit by John’s side.  Greg stayed standing, leaning against the far wall, not going to try to intervene unless he needed to.

Finally John put the book down, folding down the corner of the page he was one and set it aside, “Sorry, just had to finish the chapter,” he said as a way of apologizing his eyes skipping from one to the next.  At least he was acknowledging Sherlock this time around, Greg noted.  John seemed to notice what Greg was thinking, “They made me take my meds beforehand this time around,” his lips turned up at the edges in the smallest of smiles, “So maybe I won’t punch anyone this time around.  That’d be nice.”

He was trying to joke, but Sherlock was having none of it, “John-“ he barely managed to get out before John was on him again.

“I didn’t say you could speak,” his eyes were blazing as he stared defiantly at the detective and Sherlock bit back his shock at the change in demeanor.  As soon as the fire broke out, it was extinguished, John’s body hunching over as though it was a balloon losing air and he looked meek and sorry once again.

“How’s the jaw?”  His eyes looked up at Sherlock’s hesitantly.

Sherlock traced his fingers over the skin where John had punched him, his ivory skin already back to its unblemished state, “Back to normal.  I couldn’t chew normally for a while.”

“Not that you really eat that much, Sher-“ he cut off early, his face twisting into anger and confusion and he moved to tuck his knees up under his chin.  He tilted his head down, hiding his face in his knees, his hands gripping tightly to the sheets.  He was rocking slightly and Greg could hear him murmuring something over and over like a mantra to himself, but he couldn't make out the words to it.  Sherlock, however looked visibly distressed.  He stood up, adjusting his scarf that he hadn’t bothered taking off and leaned forward, placing a hand on John’s head.  Immediately the man stilled and became quiet.

“I’ll leave you alone now, John.  I’ll come back some other time,” he ruffled John’s hair, then moved away, past Lestrade, and opening the door to leave.  Lestrade was shocked to say the least.  After all that, Sherlock was just leaving so quickly?  Something wasn’t right.  He opened his mouth to ask what, but the quick glance Sherlock shot his way made him shut his mouth immediately.  He bid John goodbye as he swept out after the detective.  He got no reply in return.

* * *

“You never did tell me what happened last time,” Greg started, drumming his fingers lightly against his steering wheel.  He often wondered why he kept taking Sherlock out to see John when he easily could have just taken a taxi.  Yet, somehow, he felt like he had to be there for the bloody git.  This would be Sherlock’s third visit and Greg could almost see the excitement and fear battling inside of his large mind, yet his face remained like a mask, his eyes the only window for emotion.

“He was telling himself that I wasn’t Sherlock,” he said it impassively, but Greg could hear the strain at he end.

“He almost called you Sherlock, though.  That’s got to be a good sign, right?”

“We can only hope so,” he glanced over at Greg, “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to have some time alone with him.”

“Right, of course.  I understand.  I’ll stay out of your way,” he smiled and was relieved when Sherlock returned it, small as it was.  At least it was something.

Greg had nearly just finished saying good morning to John when Sherlock told him that he wanted that alone time now.  He nodded and left the room.  He could say goodbye to John later if he didn’t have a chance to talk with him during the visit.  He didn’t stray far, taking a seat on a spare seat left in the hallway a ways down.  Tilting back his head, he began to count the number of tiles in the ceiling.  Just as he was getting near 70, he heard a loud noise coming from John’s room and was immediately on his feet, rushing to see what the matter was.  He paused, his hand reaching out to the door handle at the sight that met his eyes.  John had launched himself forward into Sherlock’s arms, howling and sobbing while the detective stayed quiet, rubbing his hands up and down John’s back for comfort, his cheek rested on the top of John’s head.  Greg felt like he was intruding on something, so he quickly slid away before either noticed him.

* * *

The flat was warm again after almost four years of ice, Greg noted, walking though the open doorway with the smallest of knocks on the wooden door swung wide.  Two heads tuned to look at him.  One snorted when he saw who it was, back to whatever his attention had been on beforehand.  The other trained on him, a wide smile on his face.

“Greg, it’s good to see you as always,” he grinned.

“No it’s not,” Sherlock huffed.

“Oh, shut up, you hopeless git,” he was still smiling, “If it wasn’t for Greg, where do you think I would be right now.”

“You would be here where you belong because with or without Greg, I would have done it.  Gotten you out of there and back with me.”

“Oh, I’m yours now, am I?”

Greg smiled at the comforting scene, sitting down on the open sofa to watch the drama unfold in front of him.

“Of course you are.  Whose did you think you were?”

“Myself, maybe?”

“Preposterous.  You’re my blogger, John.”

He tilted his head back, letting out an honest laugh, his eyes crinkling in delight, “That I am, Sherlock.  It’s good to be back.”


End file.
